The Day I Discovered the Dingleberry
I didn’t discover the dingleberry in the usual way.
It wasn’t undercover in the stealth of night. It didn’t involve awkward explanations. It was daytime. I was at work. It was oh, so innocent.
All my life I’d eaten crumbles and tarts, scones and pies oozing with gooey goodness from blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries — even the occasional gag-inducing goji berry-but until my mid 30’s I’d never come face to face with a “dingleberry.” (If you’re at a loss reading this please click on https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dingleberry. Read the “slang” description and then continue reading this if you’re able.)
My first encounter with this elusive fruit was in a recording studio voicing comedy sketches for a radio syndication service.
One of my regular bits was answering fake “Dear Martha” letters in the voice of the Diva of Domesticity, Martha Stewart.
Our writers had Martha pulling a fully decorated Christmas Tree out of her privates, “I keep one handy in case I need to feel festive!” she crows.
She gave advice on hiring a Pool Boy, “Find a young, chiseled caveman who can balance your Pina Colada on his six-pack while skimming champagne corks out of your pool.”
